Detective Boyle Investigates
by Tuppence
Summary: In death, she Lauren Mallory looked better than she ever did alive. And it was my job to find out who killed her...Even if she deserved it. Even if I didn't care that she'd died... Lauren Mallory is murdered and there are limited suspects. Whodunnit?


**Disclaimer****: **I don't own Twilight.

**Author's note****: **What happens when there's a Film Noir weekend, mixed with reading Twilight and an obsession with classic whodunits? Well, this story. Read it with a pinch of salt, or maybe a tablespoon. It's a little satirical. I don't want to give away too much so I'll add my little inside humour hints at the end. When you're reading it, though, think of a strong American accent, deadpan when spoken. Or...watch the PI of any good ol' film noir. (I'd recommend the Double Indemnity. That's the voice I imagine when I write this. Youtube it.)

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**Detective Boyle Investigates**

**Chapter 1: Rosalie**

"_Sex without love is merely healthy exercise."_ Robert Heinlein

She looked beautiful, with her golden curls and big eyes with their long lashes. Her lips, painted a bright red, were relaxed, her eyes were lined black and her skin was white. With the whole focus of the light on her, she looked like a fallen angel but she might just be the devil herself. Or a demon of some kind, a scintillating demon. The first thing I thought was what a hell of a woman. And the second thing? The second thing I thought was that she's missing something, something that would make her picture more complete. A thin, long, toxic cigarette wouldn't look out of place in her slim, possibly deadly fingers, or in her red, kissable lips. She was a dramatic woman and cigarettes were dramatic, especially smoked by the right kind of woman. And she was the right kind. The third thing I thought? I could be falling in love with a murderer.

"You know Lauren Mallory?"

"Sure I do," She replied with complete _sang froid_, leanin' back in her chair as if this was an everyday occurrence. Maybe for her it was. Or maybe she was just a damn good actress.

"Know her well?"

She raised an eyebrow at that question and it was as stylish as the rest of her. "Is she the kind of girl I'd know well?" I didn't tell her that I couldn't think of a single person that'd be the kinda person she'd know well.

"I don't know the kind of person you'd know well." Her red lips twitched upwards into a minuscule smile and it took all my effort to not stare at it. Her statuesque head leaned forward, presumably into a nod, acceptin' my statement.

"I don't know her well," She said, and there was a pause before she spoke again. "Didn't know her well," She corrected herself. Emotionlessly. It could mean that this dame was innocent, but she could just be a really cool customer. "Not really well." She added. I wondered what that meant. She didn't know her well...not really well... What the hell did that mean? I wanted to get inside her head, I realised, but I wasn't sure it was for the right reasons.

"You know how she was killed?" I didn't say how she died 'cause I had to be brutal. I don't know why I had to be brutal about it; I just knew I had to be. She shook her head, some of her golden curls bouncing off of her perfectly painted face. She didn't care. If she did, she hid it well. "She was shot – three time. One shot could've killed her. One was enough but _someone_ hated her enough to shoot her three times. And then pushed her into the pool in this hotel. Know anyone that would hate her enough?"

"Maybe it wasn't hatred," There was mockery in her voice. "Maybe it was sex? Or drugs? Or maybe just a bit of rock 'n' roll?" Yes, she was definitely mocking me. What a hell of a woman – mocking the detective questionin' her.

"I'm bettin' on hatred."

And all of a sudden, the mockery was gone. "Hatred's...never usually the reason for...murder." Her voice was low and I could almost imagine her purrin' in my ear. Bad thoughts. Best to focus on what she's actually saying instead of what it sounds like. "It's usually love or money."

"Where'd you get that from?"

"All the best detective novels of course." The purr was gone and her voice was at its normal sensual pitch. "I hope you use your grey cells well." Her tone told me that she didn't think I could.

"So you don't think there's anyone that hated Lauren Mallory?"

"Everyone has somebody that hates them." She sounded like she was speakin' from experience. "Some people have many somebodies that hate them." I was sure she was talking about herself this time. She was the kinda skirt all the other gals hated and all the guys loved.

"Name me some of the somebodies that hated her." This could make things easy.

"I don't know." She crossed her legs and I envisioned a Basic Instinct moment. It was a stupid thought. Her halter neck dress was too long for that kind of moment, indecently long, down to her knees. I pushed the image away. She was too temptin'. "I didn't really pay enough attention to her." She was too good for her, she said, without actually sayin' it. It was the truth, after all. She was too good for...anyone I could think of.

"You care that she's dead?" I was running out of questions and that one came out of nowhere.

There was a pause before she shrugged one naked insolent shoulder. A second later, I knew naked was the wrong choice of words – not wrong as in incorrect but wrong as in inappropriate and dirty. I didn't know what that shrug meant. Did it mean that she didn't care that Lauren Mallory was murdered in cold blood? Did it mean that she did care but didn't want to show it? Did she not care but not want to show it? Or did she just not know?

"Would you kill her?" Her red lips lifted again, in something that was a smile but more enticing and bewildering. I had no idea what it meant.

"In the right circumstances for the right reasons...sure, why not?" Both her bare shoulders lifted in a casual shrug but my thoughts were on her words this time...even if her bare shoulders were distractin'.

"You would? You admittin' murder?" She shook her head again, golden girls bouncing of her perfectly sculpted face.

"Oh no. But everyone's capable of murder. Don't you think, Detective?" Her eyes were looking into my eyes and I wanted her to see my soul 'cause then, maybe I'd get to see part of hers. I'd forgotten I'd sold mine years ago. "Wouldn't you kill someone?"

I shrugged. No need to tell her I'd already killed someone, several someones, in fact. All of them good reasons, I thought. What were good reasons for killing Lauren Mallory and did this broad have one for killing her? She crossed her legs again, still leaning back in her chain. Somehow, that one chair in the room used for all the questionin' had become her own; she was the kinda woman who could own anything. And maybe anyone. That could lead to problems, problems could lead to arguments, and arguments could lead to three bullets in Lauren Mallory. She was a cool customer – she hadn't any emotions at all. She could have easily killed her. A motive could be found but did she have the chance to do it?

"Did you leave the dance?"

"No." The reply was as smooth as her skin. And a total lie.

"Not even for a minute?"

"Nope." She was lyin' straight to my face. There wasn't a sign of it on _her_ face. God, what a woman. You couldn't imagine her trucklin' to anyone. If she'd done it, it would be for her reasons alone.

I stared at her for a few more seconds, tryin' to work out why she lied and what to say. She said it for me. "No more questions?" I shook my head mutely. "I'll leave then. Who shall I send in next?"

I thought about it for a second. Should I ask her to send in her husband? Too obvious. Her twin brother? Again, too obvious. "Send in Mrs Hale."

She stood up in one fluid motion, she walked to the door just as gracefully and then she paused, standing by the door, looking magnificent, shrouded in the shadows now that she had moved away from the light of the sole lamp. She turned back and casually, as if this wasn't a murder investigation, she asked me in a solemn voice. "Detective, what's your name?"

"Boyle. Detective Boyle. Hadric Boyle." I don't know why I told her my first name; I never tell people my first name, especially women who could be cold blooded killers. But she wasn't an ordinary woman. She smiled a proper smile this time; felt like a ray of sunshine. Too much sunshine can kill. She left, closin' the door quietly behind her.

I took the brief time alone to think about this murder I had to solve, sippin' my black coffee. One girl, Lauren Mallory, found in the swimmin' pool. Shot three times. Each shot would've been fatal by itself. Found in the pool of a hotel that was holding a high school prom too. Nobody heard the shots. The silencer was found on the gun, found in the pool, found with a floatin' dead Lauren Mallory. Nobody was seen runnin' from the scene of the crime. Fingerprints all washed away by the water.

This could be a hard case to crack but some things made it easier. Nobody was seen comin' into the hotel an hour after prom started. All the suspects were in the prom. And then, loads of the students were accounted for the whole time. They couldn't have done it. Lauren Mallory herself was definitely there till eleven. Then she left and somebody shot her. Sometime after eleven and before half twelve, when Lauren Mallory was found, dead and floatin'. And in that time, a few people had left the prom for different amounts of time. After spending a good three hours working out who could have left, who couldn't have left, who did leave and who definitely didn't leave, I'd formed a list. And Mrs Rosalie Cullen had been the first one on this list to be questioned.

She was a contrast to Lauren Mallory. Lauren Mallory had hair too, but it wasn't golden. It was a light blonde, common. I'd seen pictures of her, some from just a few hours ago, when she was alive. She looked like a bitch. There wasn't a smile on her face, it was a smirk. A pathetic attempt to tell people that she was better than them. She wasn't. She wasn't Rosalie Cullen.

In death she looked better than she ever did alive. And it was my job to find out who killed her, even if it was Rosalie Cullen. Even if she deserved it. Even if I didn't care that she'd died, not once I saw Rosalie Cullen. And then, Mrs Alice Hale came in.

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**Author's note****:** Ok, so I thought I'd go through the list of common aspects of a classic hard-boiled detective story and see if I can tick all the boxes. We've got one detective (usually it's a PI but meh) who is a 'tough guy'. We also have him drinking black coffee (they always seem to like it dark and bitter). We have a dead body, essential for a murder mystery. We have one femme fatale, in the form of Rosalie Cullen, who is being fairly ambivalent about the death. And, of course, we've got the fairly casual acceptance of murder. Hopefully, the rest of the boxes will be ticked in later chapters.

Anyway, I wondered if anyone guessed the basis for my detective's name. Detective Hadric Boyle...shortened to Had Boyle...which sounds suspiciously similar to Hard-boiled? Let me know if you did guess it. I really hope you enjoyed the start of that. Trust me when I say it'll be as convoluted as any whodunit usually is. (Especially considering I haven't decided the murderer or the motive – it'll surprise me as much as it'll surprise you.) Please leave reviews – I find them extremely encouraging, even if it is just saying "yay I like it" or "I hated it all. Here's a list of everything you did wrong.".


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